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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28657596">Save Yourself From Recognition</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/twoam/pseuds/twoam'>twoam</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bad Ending, Brief Castiel (Supernatural), Curses, Episode: s15e20 Carry On, Escape, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Horror, Memory Loss, Non-Graphic Violence, Not a Love Story, Not a Reader fic, POV Outsider, POV Second Person, Religious Content, a hostage situation of sorts, fear of domestic violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 06:20:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,743</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28657596</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/twoam/pseuds/twoam</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>One morning you find yourself in a kitchen, at a lost to how you got there. The strangers you live with act like you're invisible. Your face is blurry and might be changing. Who are you? Why are you here? And what is your name?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Blurry Woman (Supernatural: Carry On)/Sam Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Save Yourself From Recognition</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I've had this idea lurking in my head since I watched the finale, and the Winchesters would be pretty terrifying from outside. It's not reader fic despite the second person POV. No in-scene death but I picked CNTW anyway.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The coffee pot shatters in your hands. One moment it is solid in your hands and the next you jump away, let it crash to the floor as glass and coffee rain down. You are fast enough that it does not hit you in its descent but the coffee splashes and burns you anyway. Your hands are shaking as you look at them, at the coffee on them. It looks like blood did between your fingers. You have never bled enough to see this much blood between your fingers. </p><p>It is like you suddenly broke out of a dream. </p><p>Where are you? The question presses on you even through your pain. You do not remember where you were last but it was not here. You turn to look for a sink, in an unfamiliar kitchen. You are wearing unfamiliar clothes, ruined by the coffee. This is a stranger's house. What are you doing here? You cannot remember why you are here, what you are doing, but something feels wrong. </p><p>You turn to the sink behind you, realize there are taps and turn them on. Your hands shake under the cold water. The burn hurts but the pain is a relief. You feel like you have woken up because of the pain. From what, you don't know. Did you sleep badly last night? You feel like you sleep badly, but you can't remember. Did you sleep here? </p><p>You hear someone come into the kitchen. They walk past you at the sink, past the shattered glass around you, and go to the kitchen table. You do not look at them, do not plead for help with clearing up or for an explanation. Their silence silences you. They walked past you without comment and that sends fear up your spine. They put something down on the table and walk back to where you are standing, cold water running over your hands. </p><p>A hand reaches over you, like you're not there, and grabs the bagged bread from the other side of the sink. A man's arm. You want to look up, see who this man is, but you see how big his hands are and you do not. His hands are large, of a tall man, a strong man. Someone much stronger than you.</p><p>They are hands that could reach around your throat and crush it. </p><p>You do not understand why you thought that. You are in his house, you think, and he is ignoring you. The bread is pushed down into a toaster behind you. The water is cold now, your hands are freezing, but you do not turn it off. The man is opening cupboards around you. He nudges you out of the way but otherwise ignores you. It is not the pointed ignoring of someone who is angry with you. It is indifferent, like you are invisible. Like you are not there. Your hands are shaking from the cold now, you can no longer feel the burn properly, you turn off the taps. </p><p>You turn in a careful circle to not disturb the glass around you. The man is behind you. He is tall, even taller than you expected. Gangling, a voice that isn't yours offers in your mind. He is handsome, much more handsome than you expected, doesn't look like he will kill you like you feared, but his eyes won't focus on you. They slide off you when you dare to meet them, like a bead of condensation sliding down a glass. </p><p>"Who are you?" You regret the question, feel it is a dangerous question to ask, are afraid of the answer. He looks at you with confusion. He squints, as if he is having a hard time seeing you, as if you are blurry and he needs glasses. </p><p>"Where's Dean? Is he up yet?" Dean? You don't know any Deans. He looks at you, expectant but still squinting, before his eyes drift off to the side, to anywhere but you. The fear grows inside you. Why won't he look at you? Why is it so hard to look at you? Why are you in this stranger's house and why can't he look at you like you're present? </p><p>"I don't know." He nods at this, as if he heard you this time, before grabbing the toast that's popped up. He doesn't ask anything else, steps over the glass but doesn't offer to help clear it up, or tell you off for not cleaning up, for breaking it. He leaves the kitchen with the toast. You hear a yell from outside the kitchen you are trapped in by this stranger. </p><p>"Dean, get up! You're going to be late!" You brace yourself over the sink, feel like you are about to throw up. You don’t but there is nothing in your stomach to come up anyway. </p><p>What has happened to you? Your breath sticks in your throat, your lungs can't get enough air. You shut your eyes, take deep, gulping breaths as you run the taps to wash away the evidence. You are supposed to be okay with this, with this life you are in, but you are not and you are terrified. </p><p>You open your eyes. Your knuckles are white from how tightly you are holding onto the sides of the sink. That's when you see it. A wedding ring on your ring finger. </p><p>A wedding ring? Are you married? When did you get married? Was that tall man your husband? The idea of marriage, of marriage to that man feels absurd, wrong. You do not remember getting married. You cannot be married. </p><p>Can you?</p><p>You try to remember but you can't.</p>
<hr/><p>If you don't think, if you let yourself drift, you find yourself in a routine. You do tasks automatically. You clean, you cook, you shop, you stand at the window staring out of it at nothing. You find your thoughts hazy, unclear when you do these things.</p><p>You do not know what you are looking for when you look out of the window. There might not be anything you are looking for. This scares you, in a different way from how the strangers who ignore you scare you. You feel like you are slipping, falling, drowning when you do not focus. That you will lose yourself. </p><p>Whoever you are.</p><p>There is a boy called Dean here. You might be his mother, but he does not call you Mom when he comes in from the yard, trailing dirt in. He doesn't call you anything. He only notices you when he is looking in the fridge and asks you for a snack. You make him a sandwich. You ask him how he is, if he had a nice time outside. His eyes slide off you too, like glass, like he didn't hear your questions. Dean does not look at you as he takes the sandwich. You look at him closely anyway as if to try to spark recognition. He doesn't notice. Dean does not look like you, you think, or like the man either, who he calls Dad as he goes off with the sandwich.</p><p>What do you look like? You walk through into the lounge, pick your way through unfamiliar furniture. Photographs of strangers, lots of strangers, look down on you. One man, shorter but fiercer as he stands next to the man you live with, stares out at you defiantly. You cannot meet those eyes even when they are dead. You find a mirror on the wall and you look into it. </p><p>Your face is a blur. </p><p>You frown, move in closer to take a better look at yourself. When you look closely, your face is not a blur, but it's – it's blurry around the edges. The longer you look, the more you can see your features emerge in the reflection. You have to focus hard to see them. You look normal, you think. What are you supposed to look like? What color are your eyes? What shape is your nose? Do you have freckles? You can't remember. Your features appear to be all there, in the correct place, but you feel that something is off about them. </p><p>Like if you turn away and look back they will have changed.</p><p>When you turn away, your hands are shaking again. You do not dare look back into the mirror. You are afraid of what you might see if you do. You sit down on the couch and turn on the TV instead. A voice that is not yours says you must distract yourself. You have to distract yourself from these questions.</p>
<hr/><p>You stay up late. The washing up is done, the kitchen tidy, and everyone else has gone to bed. It is just you, alone and watching TV again. You do not want to go join the stranger in the bed upstairs, do not want to wake up to find yourself in that bed again despite falling asleep on the couch. </p><p>You prefer to think that he moves you after you fall asleep, carries you to bed out of sympathy, perhaps love, even if you are afraid of him, than of the alternative: that you are sleepwalking yourself into his bed without noticing. You flick through infomercials, promising happiness for $34.99, through shows from countries you do not know, and stop on a religious broadcast. The preacher is sweating under a hot sun. He wipes his forehead, talks of the power of prayer, how God will answer any prayer made with enough faith. As you change channels you try it. You don't remember being religious or in believing in God, but you try. You don't know if they are correct, words God will listen to, but you believe in them when you pray. </p><p>
  <em>Dear Lord. I am in a hole. I am lost and I don't know where I am or who I am. Help me. Please, please help me.</em>
</p><p>There is no flash of light, no burning bush. There is an emptiness and a sense of a disappointment you recognize. You feel like this is not the first time God has let you down. Despite your best attempt to stay up, to keep watching, you fall asleep.</p><p>You wake up in the king-sized bed. It is so big that you can lose him in it, despite his size. It is easier to lose him because despite carrying you upstairs (you have to believe in it, you are scared of what you do when you aren't fully there, when you check out), he does not reach out for you. He does not try to hold you or cling onto you in the night. The stranger (you cannot call him your husband, you cannot) is not a cuddler. His back is always turned to you, he curls up in himself. Sometimes he has nightmares. When he does you leave the room, too afraid to stay as he thrashes in his sleep. Tonight he sleeps soundly, soft breaths as you look up at the ceiling and wonder how this is your life. You have not found any answers. </p><p>Answers would require someone to talk to you, notice you. You do not think you are actually invisible, but you wonder. Perhaps you are.</p>
<hr/><p>You do not remember driving to the grocery store. You find yourself in an aisle, staring at the cereals when you jerk to awareness. What are you buying, why are you buying it? There is a box of own-brand Cheerios in your hands. You look at it like a stranger placed it into your hands before walking away. Why are you here? Are you here for the strangers who you live with, the people whose house you live in? You put the Cheerios in the cart. It is not your house, you are not even a servant. It is like you are furniture, like a table. You are always there and they ignore you. </p><p>When you come back again, you are at the check out. Where were you? Are you tired? You sleep in a bed with a stranger who ignores you, after all. Would that not make you tired? This might be normal. If only you knew what normal was. You wish you could remember something, anything, but you are afraid of what you might remember. It might be worse than this life you are living, that voice whispers to you again. The bags are packed, the cashier is waiting but her eyes slide off you too. </p><p>"Can you see me?" The cashier blinks at your question but she's heard you.</p><p>"Sure, I can see you." Her eyes look at you, don't slide off but she isn't looking in the right place. It's like she's looking at something in the distance and you're in the foreground. You're out of focus. "I can see you, ma'am. Cash or credit?"</p>
<hr/><p>The success with the cashier makes you wonder. At dinner, you try again.</p><p>"Can you see me?" The question makes both strangers look at you for a moment, as if you only just arrived at the table. Dean immediately loses focus, digs back into his food and ignores you for the TV. The man doesn't. For a few seconds, he is looking directly at you. His eyes don't slide off or drift away. He is laser focused on you, and there is something terrifying and dark in his eyes. He looks like he could kill you, is perhaps considering if he should kill you right now. It shakes you, the fear pins you to your chair at the table. Your voice dies in your throat. You shouldn't have asked, should have lived in ignorance, not made him look at you. </p><p>"Sure I can see you, honey." His voice is a little confused, the look in his eyes fades and now he looks benign, like he wouldn't hurt you. You are not fooled. That look was the most focused you've seen him. His phone rings and his eyes slide off you again as he reaches for it. You fade back into obscurity, by the time he picks up the call you might as well have left the table. "Hello, Sam Winchester." </p><p>That's his name? You try it out under your breath as he walks out of the room to take the call. Mrs Sam Winchester. No, it seems wrong. Over the noise of the TV, you hear Sam going upstairs. The thump of footsteps, something dropped directly overhead. What's up there? What is in the other rooms? You try to recall and it hurts, you feel the start of a thumping headache. You push away your plate from you, your appetite has vanished if it was ever there. Dean laughs at something on the TV, turns to you as if to share that laughter with you, but as soon as he looks at you, it dies away. He turns his back on you again, ignores you even when you call his name to see if he'll acknowledge you again. </p><p>What is your name?</p><p>You can't remember.</p>
<hr/><p>The next day you are cleaning. Dean is at school and Sam is at work. When you realize you are cleaning, you stop. You think of last night, of Sam going upstairs, of not knowing what's in each room of this house you are in. You decide to find out. Each room is a surprise when you enter it, not like you remembered it. If you could remember. You walk through each room carefully, lift objects up to look at them as if you are in a museum. You are investigating the life of someone else, which you happen to be living in. The thought makes you put down the strange object you don't recognize.</p><p>You reach the garage, and find an old black car in it. It is not like the car you share with Sam. That car is sensible. It is a hybrid and you get groceries in it. This car is not for that. You wonder why Sam owns this car, why is it hidden away like this. Despite the dust on it, when you touch the black hood of the car, it feels reassuring. You try the driver's door, surprised to find it's unlocked and you can get in.</p><p>The leather is smooth under your thighs as you slide into the driver's seat. It feels different from the car you use. You stretch out carefully, put your hands on the wheel as if you are about to drive off. It feels different on the parts of the wheel you rest your hands on, as if it has been repaired after being worn down. It feels like – it feels like nothing else does in the house. It is a warm feeling, calming. You think of those shows about cars, of men talking about the cars they love. Perhaps this car is loved. You run your hands down the wheel, settling in. It is not your car, you should probably not be in this car, but it feels like you could drive this car. Drive away in it and never come back. </p><p>You shift, feel under the seat to see if you can adjust the seat forward. You find canvas instead, pull it out from under the seat with a frown. The duffel bag looks dusty, like it's been there for a while. You carefully unzip it and immediately regret it.</p><p>There is a shotgun in it. A shotgun, lots of cartridges for it, loose cash, fake IDs, credit cards, none of them in the name of Sam Winchester. There are other things you do not recognize but you know are wrong, that you should not see. You zip up the bag, throw it back under the seat. You hear a scream that makes you twitch, makes your head hurt again, thump thump thump, you smell smoke in the air and feel soot on your skin. You jump out of the car, slam the door behind you and flee.</p>
<hr/><p>You are unnerved when they return home. You are afraid that Sam will notice, that you touched the car. You are certain that you were not supposed to touch the car. It was hidden away from you to not be touched by you, a piece of furniture, the invisible woman. </p><p>Sam does not notice that anything is different or that you touched the car. When Dean arrives back from school, you ask him how his day was and he ignores you. He throws his bag down in the hallway and goes off to get a snack. Suddenly you are hit with an intense wave of hatred, of revulsion towards that...child. Towards that changeling living in the house. Is he a monster? Where did he come from? </p><p>Sam is your husband, you think, you can't remember but you think he might be even if you cannot remember how or when this happened. There is a photo, not with the other photos, off to the side, near the kitchen, of a wedding. It sits alone and it shows a couple on their wedding day. It might be your wedding day. You do not like to look at it. It is like when you forget to avoid mirrors and see your face in it. It might be you but it is hard to see your face in it. When you look it is blurry, shifting. If you look too long, you might see it becoming a new face that's now yours. </p><p>The changeling, however. You know it is not your child. You are uncertain of so much, even your own face, you cannot remember your name, but you know that this is not your child. You did not birth him, you did not find him, and he is even more of a stranger than your apparent husband.</p><p>You hate the changeling.</p>
<hr/><p>Later, when Sam is going to bed, you stay on the couch like you feel something will attack you if you go upstairs. Tonight he stops by the couch and looks at you. His eyes still don't focus, but it is like he is making an effort to see you. The thought makes you ask him a question.</p><p>"What was our wedding like?" There is no terrifying look tonight. He does not look like he wants to kill you for asking this and you let out a breath of relief that he ignores as he thinks about it. He is struggling, he covers his mouth with his hand, rubs it as he tries to remember, as if his memory is as bad as yours. He turns to look at the photos of the strangers that watch you every day, smiling, blank eyes following your every move before he drops his hand. </p><p>"It was a small wedding at the courthouse. I don't have any family now, apart from Dean." </p><p>"What about my family?" Sam shrugs and doesn't seem to find the question strange. He doesn't change his answer, add that you are part of his family now, either. He just doesn't care. It feels like you were a prop, attending the wedding purely for the sake of Sam being able to marry someone. You did not join this family on that day and you likely never will.</p><p>"Goodnight, darling." He leaves and you are left alone in the dark. You don't even turn on the TV this time. You slowly fall onto your side, collapse onto the couch and realize it is what you feared. There is nobody left in this world who loves you. You are alone and exist as a prop for two men, one of whom you hate and the other you are afraid of. It makes sense that you have no face, that nobody can see you. You don't even deserve a name. The voice, that little voice that isn't yours, tells you to forget about it. You'd be happier if you forgot about this.</p>
<hr/><p>You keep trying to sleep on the couch, and find yourself in the bed when you wake up. You decide to try somewhere else, where Sam will not find you. Where you cannot find your way out and sleepwalk back to him.</p><p>Tonight you creep upstairs once the house is silent, when you are certain the others are asleep. You hover in the hallway, listening to their snores, before deciding you will go in the study tonight. You are not forbidden from it, in fact you are not forbidden from anywhere in the house. That would require someone to pay any attention to you. Nobody forbids a chair from going into other rooms. </p><p>The study is lit by the streetlamps outside as you enter, the curtains wide open. You go over to the desk, sit down carefully in the chair and slowly open up the top of the laptop on the desk. The screen comes alive, but it is locked. You need a password. You cannot imagine what Sam would use as a password. </p><p>There is another laptop next to it, lid shut, coiled like a snake and you pick that up. This laptop is not locked and it greets you with 'Welcome, Dean Winchester'. You pause, wonder what you will do with this now you have it open. You are aware of how laptops work, of the internet, even if you cannot remember how. You don't even have a phone now. Not that you need a phone. Nobody would call you.</p><p>What you want, you think to yourself as you open up the browser, is reassurance. You would like to know if what you are experiencing is normal. That voice tells you it is normal, tries to lure you away from the laptop, but you open up the search engine and type in a question.</p><p>
  <em>I am married and I am invisible to my husband?</em>
</p><p>There are more results than you expected. So many forum posts, so many blogs, even sites where you ask questions and people answer them. There are many women out there like you, who are invisible. It seems to be normal to become invisible to your husband, to disappear from his sight, for him to treat you like you don't exist. It's the rush of first love dying down, it's the kids taking up both of yours time, it's the menopause. It's normal.</p><p>They have answers too. You read them avidly, you must know how to fix this, how to become real again. Become visible. Sexy underwear, date nights, telling him what you like, picking your fights instead of arguing over everything, using 'I feel' instead of 'you did' when you are arguing. You don't argue with Sam. You don't remember having sex with Sam either. The thought makes you feel queasy. You see him looming over you in the dark, pinning you down in that huge bed, paying attention to you, and your heart constricts with fear. </p><p>You are glad that he does not touch you. You do not want him to touch you. Is that normal? It might be. Decreasing sexual appetite is normal in women your age.</p><p>What is your age?</p><p>You don't know that either. You close the tab with a sigh. So you don't argue with Sam, and you don't want to have sex with Sam either. How can you apply this advice? They said you can share interests together. What does he like? You don't know. He never talks to you. What does he do for a living? You also don't know that. Maybe if you search it, you might find out. He might be on his company's website with his job title. Perhaps, you think, you can impress him by knowing that. If he hears you. </p><p>You open a fresh tab, and you search 'Sam Winchester'. The very first result is from the FBI's Most Wanted page. You freeze. It feels like someone has walked over your grave, a deep, dark thing blooms inside you. A stab of fear, even as you tell yourself it must be another one, a different Sam Winchester. He scares you but that's your fault, there's something wrong with you. He's – well, you don't know him. At all. You open the link and you muffle your cry with the back of your forearm when the photograph loads.</p><p>Oh, it's your Sam Winchester, alright, looking back at you from a mug shot. He looks younger, much younger, but there is that look in his eyes. The look he gave you when you asked if he could see you. That darkness. </p><p>There's an associate. You recognize that face from the photos that stare down at you. You struggle to meet his eyes here too. Samuel Winchester is likely to be with his brother, Dean Winchester. They are wanted for multiple murders, for impersonating a federal officer, for fraud, for armed robbery, for unlawful flight to avoid prosecution. Members of the public should be warned that the brothers regularly impersonate FBI agents. Both of them should be considered armed and dangerous and a flight risk. DO NOT approach them, call the FBI hotline instead. </p><p>You feel like you are about to die. You can't breath, you're breathing too fast, you can't get in enough air. You stagger up, lock yourself into the study and prop up a chair under the door handle. You are copying this idea from a movie. You do not know if it will be enough to stop Sam Winchester from murdering you like he has so many others. Why are you still alive? How come he hasn't killed you like all the rest yet?</p><p>Maybe he is waiting for his brother to come back. The other Dean Winchester. Then they'll, what, kill you? Maybe he doesn't like working alone. You can't lose the thought, can't lose the fear that you will not survive tonight, that Sam will realize you know the truth about him and kill you for it. That Dean will come in and kill you as a favor to his brother. </p><p>In desperation, you try again. More fervor and more fear. You are not just lost this time, you are in mortal peril. You are afraid for your life. </p><p>
  <em>God, please help me. They will kill me. I need to get away. I want to live. I don't care about my memories, about people seeing me. I'll stay invisible if I can just live. Please spare me.</em>
</p><p>You remember how to finish this time. <em>Amen</em>.</p><p>Again, God lets you down. There is silence. No savior, no heavenly message for you. It is just you and the serial killer asleep several rooms away.</p>
<hr/><p>The next day you wake up in the study. You fell asleep on the chair next to the books and did not break out to join the serial killer in the bedroom. You would feel proud of this achievement if it had not come at such a cost. If you were not so deep in the woods.</p><p>You look at the time. It is midday. Nobody tried to wake you, to break into the room to see if you are okay. Today you are relieved that you are invisible, that you are nothing to them. But you know you cannot rely on staying invisible. You remember that look in Sam's eyes, considering if he needed to kill you, and you know that you must leave. </p><p>You creep over to the window and look out, keeping your head low so nobody sees you outside. The car is gone. Sam must be at work. This will give you the time to get ready to leave. You decide you will take the car when they are home and ignoring you, you will drive and not stop until you are safe. That is when you will call the FBI, when you are far away from him and turn him in, so he cannot hurt anyone else. So you cannot be hurt by him or his brother. </p><p>Despite the car being gone, you are careful as you move the chair from the door and free yourself from the study. The house is silent and the only noise in it is your breathing, loud and harsh in your ears. You are shivering as you go into the bedroom. The bed is made and the room is filled with things that do not belong to you. You pull a bag out from under the bed, you fill it with the few things that might be yours. Clothes, deodorant, hair brush, shoes. They are tucked away, hidden under his clothes, his toiletries, his things. You hope this means he will not notice they are gone.</p><p>You need something to protect yourself if he does notice. You remember the bag under the front seat of the car. The car does not look like it works or you would drive away in it now. Instead you softly go downstairs and enter the garage. It looks undisturbed since the last time you were there. You open the car door, feel under the seat and pull out the bag. You open it, feel sick at the shotgun you see when you do. You know nothing about firearms, you feel like you've never shot a gun in your life. It is a step you do not want to take. You do not want to kill someone. </p><p>Armed and dangerous. That is how the FBI has described the man who is your husband.  You reminded yourself of this fact, that it is you or him, as you zip up the bag again and hide it away in the closet, next to your other bag. It is near the door. You can grab it and leave without anyone seeing you. </p><p>You barricade yourself back into the study and you wait. You use the laptop and search for questions like it can understand you, like it cares. </p><p>
  <em>Where will I be safe. Where can I hide from my husband. How to load and fire a shotgun. How to use a credit card. How to hide from someone. How to use a pay phone. How to get a cell phone with no address. How to pray. How to pray so someone hears me. Is God real. Are angels real. Has anyone ever seen an angel.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Has anyone seen an angel who isn't crazy. Has anyone seen an angel -poetry -Jesus</em>
</p><p>
  <em>How to disappear. How to fake my own death. How to store and maintain a shotgun. How to live in your car. What do I need to travel in US. Where should I go.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Where is Attica.<br/>
What happened in Attica.<br/>
What happened in Attica last year.<br/>
What happened to me in Attica. </em>
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  <em>What is a nice name for a girl.</em>
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<hr/><p>The sound of the car breaks you out of your searching. You shut the window, your heart loud in your chest, so loud that he must be able to hear it as he parks. You expect a shout upstairs, even though he never calls for you when he comes in. He may not be alone. He may have Dean with him, the other Dean, the one who wants to kill you. You sit at the desk paralyzed, waiting for something to happen. </p><p>Nothing happens. You wait and Sam ignores you. No shouts, no calls. Not even a creak of footsteps on the stairs. You wait until you hear the back door slam shut in the wind.</p><p>It is your moment. You push the chair away from the door, grab the laptop impulsively, and find yourself out in the hallway. Shadows stretch across the plain carpet as you take careful, quiet steps. You hold your breath as you make your way down the stairs in shadow. You feel yourself blur, fade into the background, will yourself to. You fear your new knowledge will show on your face, clear where nothing else is about you and you will die. </p><p>You hear the thunk of a baseball being thrown outside. You open the closet, see the two bags waiting for you, the only friends you have. You put the laptop in with your clothes and take them out. The closet door sounds loud even as you shut it as quietly as you can. The keys jangle traitorously loud as you pick them up. The front door is the loudest sound you've ever heard as you shut it behind you. You expect Sam to notice, to realize, to chase you. </p><p>You keep your head down and manage not to be sick on the drive as you get into the car. Your bags next to you on the passenger seat, the beep of the alarm because they don't have a seat belt on. You ignore it, look into the rear view mirror. You can barely see yourself in it, just a blur of color. There is nobody behind you and you swallow down your sickness to pull out of the drive and away. </p><p>You have to drive. Your hands shake on the wheel as you drive carefully down the street. You need to go east. You do not know where you are going, but your body knows and it takes you onto US-36. You cut off a truck at the entry, its horn screams at you and you don't care. I am leaving, I am leaving, but the fighter still remains.</p><p>It is a song, you realize. You know a song! You hadn't thought of music in that house, not once, and here you are, remembering a song. It is one from before, before this happened to you. You hum it under your breath, like someone might hear you otherwise, as you speed down the highway towards Indiana. You drum your fingers against the wheel to the chorus. Lie la lie.</p>
<hr/><p>You eventually stop for gas. It is late, the night is clear and your breath makes a cloud in the air as you shut the car door behind you. There is a motel next to the gas station, you consider staying, decide not to based on the advice you found online. Leave as little of a trail as you can. Sam Winchester is dangerous. You do not want to leave a way for him to find you. </p><p>The doors part for you when you reach the entrance to pay. The teenager on the desk looks up, nods at you before looking back at his phone. The gas station is brightly lit, smells like bleach and freedom. You take your time, look at the snacks, consider what you would like to eat. You should hurry but you are not sure what you would like, need to check the packaging. You do not think you are allergic to nuts, so you pick up a Snickers. By the time you reach the till, you have a collection of snacks cradled in your arms. You are excited to try them. You do not remember being excited to eat before. </p><p>You spill them over the counter. The teenager does not blink, rings them up for you and packs them into a plastic bag. When he asks for your pump number, he looks at you dead in the eyes. He is bored but his eyes don't slide away, they are focused on you. This makes you feel happy, even on the run. You pay with a credit card, stop to look at yourself in the reflection of the glass doors before they open. You see yourself in them. You look real. Your face is not blurry, everything is – right. Your face looks right, it looks correct. Everything is where it should be and you know that if you look back at your reflection again, it will still look like this.</p><p>It makes you smile even when you are running for your life. You exist. You go to the car but each step away from the brightly lit, friendly gas station makes your heart feel heavier. By the time you reach your car, you feel afraid again. You exist, and so does Sam Winchester. So does Dean Winchester. You put the shopping bag in the car and pause, shut the door to quiet its alarm. Leaning against the hood of the car, you look up at the stars overhead. They are bright and beautiful and so far away. They are hot as they burn up light years away. The light of them comes to you already millions of years old. They might already be dead. You read an article about stars while waiting and it made your head spin. It was beautiful, a terrifying, distant kind of beauty. Nobody seems to know if God is real, not for sure, but looking at the stars makes you want to believe he is, no, they are. It is so vast, and you are so small. God would be a good bridge between them and you. </p><p>You try again, out loud this time. </p><p>"Our father in heaven, I need your help and your protection. Please look over me and spare me from Sam and Dean Winchester. From both Dean Winchesters. Amen." You shut your eyes, wait for a sign even though you are realizing God does not do signs. There is silence. You exhale, open your eyes again and turn back to the car to open the door. </p><p>There is a man between you and the door. </p><p>The lot was empty when you came out, no car here but yours, and there is now a man behind you and the door. You open your mouth to scream but no sound comes out, like he stole your voice. The man stares at you, head slightly tilted, like he is seeing into your very soul. He is not a Winchester but this man is also terrifying. He is blocking your escape, staring at you like he knows everything about you, so intense that you cannot look away from the unnatural, terrifying blue of his eyes. They burn like stars. </p><p>Nobody has looked at you like this before, seen you like this before and you want it to stopstopstopstopdon'tlookatme don'tseemestopdon'tlookstop</p><p>The man reaches out to touch your arm. You flinch and push his hand away. You can feel the strength in his hand and he – lets you. He lets you push him away from you.</p><p>"I need to talk to you." His voice is deep, calm but there is a note in it that makes fear run down your spine. </p><p>"Get the fuck away from me!" You push him away from the door and he lets you. He lets you throw open the door, grab the shotgun from under the seat and point it at him. "Get the hell away from me or I'll blow your fucking brains out!" Your hands are shaking but the gun is loaded and pointed at his chest. At this range you will kill him. The man is unconcerned by the gun pointing at his chest and looks at you with serious eyes. They would be sympathetic if he was not trapping you too. </p><p>"Why are you afraid of Dean Winchester?" You feel sick. This man is here to kill you, and without thinking you pull the trigger. The recoil makes you stagger back but the man is still there, standing tall like you didn't just shoot him in the chest. His trench coat has the bullet holes in it but it's as if you didn't hit him. You are going to die. You jump into the car, start it without shutting the door, only pull it shut as you hit the gas and speed out of the lot. </p><p>The man does not follow you. You see him in the side view mirrors, objects in mirrors are closer than they appear. He stands there and watches you peel away like your life depends on it. Your life does depend on getting away from that man. You did not expect the Winchesters to realize so quickly and send someone to hunt you down this fast. You are crying, you realize, when your eyes get too blurry to see properly anymore. You do not pull over, you keep driving, wipe them on the back of your sleeve as you keep driving. You need to put as much distance between that man and yourself as possible. You wonder when you will be safe, if you will ever be safe.</p><p>You could have not left, the voice in your head offers. If you'd stayed, you wouldn't need to do this. You ignore it. What a stupid thing to say. You need to save yourself, you need to save everyone else from the Winchesters. When you finally pull over on the side of the road, too tired to keep driving, you sleep in the driver's seat. The shotgun is loaded, ready to grab from under the seat in case your pursuers reach you tonight. </p><p>You are surprising yourself with strength you never knew you had in that house. You refuse to go gentle into that good night. They will have a fight to kill you. You do not know your name but you feel like this, despite how afraid you are, is more like you.</p>
<hr/><p>Your sleep is only disturbed by your dreams. You wake up startled at dawn, blink your eyes as the images from your dreams slip away from you. You don't remember dreaming before, and the vague image you grasp, of fire and of bright lights and smoke, are disturbing even as they vanish. </p><p>You wipe the sleep out of your eyes and start driving. Your pursuers did not find you last night, you must keep driving so they do not find you today. The sky is clear again and the sun melts the ice as you hit rush hour traffic. Sitting in traffic should make you mad, anxious, but it doesn't. The traffic is a sign that other people exist even if they are getting in the way of reaching your destination. It will stop your pursuers too, slow them down. </p><p>The green sign that says 'Attica, Veedersburg 1 mile’ is finally the kind of sign you have been waiting for. God offers nothing compared to highway signage. You make the turn, feel your heart lift as if you are heading in the right direction finally. There will be answers in Attica and you let your feet push you forward, take you in the direction they already know. </p><p>The cracked concrete, the low houses, the trucks parked in the road. It is not different from where you were but it feels like home. You know this town, it is not filled with strangers, you were not invisible here. You slow down as you drive through the residential streets, crane your neck to find the house you are looking for. It's here. You stop, pull up to where it should be and there is...nothing.</p><p>Not entirely true. The lot may have been bulldozed but a piece of yellow tape, tied between trees next to the sidewalk, flaps in the wind, 'caution', closing off the path leaving up to the vacant lot. Otherwise it is empty. Whatever was here has been bulldozed. Something shoots up through you as you stare at the rubble, the 'FOR SALE' sign. There is something wrong here. Not your memory failing you wrong, but something far, far worse. It is dark, sinister and presses down on your chest, you must flee. It is something else here that wants to kill you, wants you to die. You pull out, your chest heaving as you gasp for air, speed out of this cursed street and away. </p><p>Fire. Smoke and flames around you. You were choking. You were dying. You can smell the smoke and the melting plastic in your nose as you hit the gas. You don't know where you're going this time, don't trust your instincts after they brought you here to this cursed spot. You go north because there is nowhere else for you to go. </p><p>It is not until you are on the interstate again you realize that the smoke was not what was killing you. It was something else, something your memory shrieks against when you press it to remember. It physically hurts to try. Whatever it was your brain, unlike with Sam, is trying to protect you. Despite its attempts to stop you, you remember the smell of something else, too, smell it even as you scrub your nose with the back of your hand. Sulfur. </p><p>You must do something else. You turn on the radio out of desperation, flick between the stations until you finally find music. The song ends and the DJ says she's taking requests all morning. A caller ums and ahs when they're patched through, trying to remember what they were requesting. Your muscles are so tense that they are shaking as you grip onto the steering wheel, try to focus on the road and not whatever dark horror is lurking in your mind. Please, please distract you from your fear. </p><p>"Okay, so here it is, Sweet Caroline by Neil Diamond."</p><p>"Thank you!" The caller is cut off and the song starts. It sounds familiar from the first note. You know this song too. How do you know this song? You strain yourself to remember, your muscles straining too. The chorus starts, 'Sweet Caroline' and suddenly you remember, it hits you like a punch to the chest. </p><p>Your dad, singing along to the chorus loudly, badly and out of tune to embarrass both you and your mom. He tapped the dun dun dun like he always did on the wheel, looked over in the rear view mirror to you when he crooned 'sweet Caroline'. You were a surly teenager and you rolled your eyes, unable to believe how embarrassing he was, how corny he was being. God. Your dad laughed and your mom was flushed with embarrassment but laughing too. It was her fault anyway, she always loved that song and your dad teased her about it, even when he agreed that Caroline was a nice name for a girl. </p><p>Your name is Caroline. </p><p>You pull over, chest heaving. Cars whizz past you. Your name is Caroline and you remember. You remember why you were in Attica now. It's where you were born and grew up. You used to beg for a chance to accompany your dad whenever he went out of town so you could stop for ice cream on the way back. You always got Superman and your dad got Moose Tracks. That’s what kind of childhood you had. Attica was boring and dull and you never came back after college. But you only escaped to Chicago, didn't move more than a couple of hours away. Your family was small, you were an only child. You didn't always get along with your parents but they loved you and you loved them. That's why you were back that day, for Mom's birthday, for the fire that consumed the house. For the – something. You don't know what happened but you remember the screaming, the pain, the flames, the sinister echo that sounded like a laugh. The pain inflicted on your soul as well as on your physical body. A trap, pulling you in.</p><p>A hand, pulling you out. A large hand pulling you out of the flames, out of the trap just before it killed you. You were dying, you looked Sam Winchester in the eyes, grabbed onto him and you screamed for him to save you. It came out as a croak but something happened. A flash of light.</p><p>Then you found yourself with the coffee pot shattering in your hands in his kitchen. </p><p>This time you scream. Not to be saved, just to let it out. You scream so hard it hurts your throat before collapsing, head buried in your hands as you cry. Your parents are gone. They died and you couldn't save them. You were stolen from your life. It hurts, a tidal wave of grief washing over you. You have lost everything, only regained what will cause you pain. </p><p>You do not stop weeping until you hear a car pull in behind you. The engine is loud enough to rattle your little car. You look up, glance into the rear view mirror and see another car. The black car, cleaned of dust, out of the garage with Sam in the driver's seat. Imagine not being afraid of that car. It is black like death. You look at yourself in the side view mirror and you are blurry. Your features are changing, you are shifting, you are vanishing as he gets out of the car. </p><p>Your name is Caroline and you have lost everything but you refuse to lose your life too. You slam on the gas and peel off as fast as you can. The black car is all muscle, a beast compared to your car, but you have a head start, a disregard for the speed limit and a refusal to slow down for anything.</p>
<hr/><p>It is dark when you arrive in Chicago. You have nowhere to go. Your room mates must think you are dead, surely someone else now lives in your old room. When you finally stop for gas, you feel like you should give up. There is no place for you here either. Perhaps you should have stayed in Kansas. Stayed in that numbness forever. </p><p>It is hard to summon up the enthusiasm for food when you stare at the hot food cabinet. Someone taps your shoulder, doesn't flinch at how you flinch. You turn, fearing it is the strange man again, but it is a woman with kind eyes, sympathetic expression on her face.</p><p>"You look lost, honey. Are you lost?" You nod, manage to croak out a 'yes'. She nods as if you have confirmed what she suspected all along, and looks at you clearly. Not bored, not sliding past you, not with the terrifying power of the stars staring directly into your very soul. She looks at you as if she's noticed you and feels you are worthy of paying attention to. It is more kindness than you ever hoped for. "Do you need somewhere to stay?"</p><p>"Yes." She offers her couch to you, a complete stranger. She is either good or very naive, or perhaps this is another trap. You are too tired to avoid it. She does not seem like she would work with the Winchesters. You accept and let her take you to her small apartment. She lets you use her shower, lets you change and then sets you up on the couch. </p><p>"I believe in God," she says, sitting next to you. "I believe things happen for a reason. Like tonight. I wasn't planning to go out but I was out of milk, and there you were." You nod but it is hard to believe in God. You went to church but it was easy to fall out of the habit, and what you saw in that fire and happened afterwards would test your faith if it was strong. Still, you have the kindness of this stranger because of God, real or not, and you are grateful for that.</p><p>"The Lord works in mysterious ways." You offer, throat dry. She laughs and gets you some milk. It's the best tasting milk you've ever had. She asks you if you are running away. "Yes. My husband...I'm scared of him." You are scared of him, do not even think of his name in this kind woman's house. She pats your shoulder.</p><p>"There's a women's shelter I know. I'll take you there tomorrow, see how they can help you." This is more than you deserved to be helped, and you are afraid, both of Sam and of Sam's wrath on her. You accept, talk a little more, and she gives you an old cell phone and a prepaid card for it. You curl up on the couch when she goes to bed. Blankets piled on top of you, you fret, try to forget the fire, the sinister laughter, the death in his eyes. </p><p>You should call but you worry about catching her up in this mess. She is in enough danger as it is with you here. You cannot accept her offer of help tomorrow, you must go on your own way. You worry until you are finally too exhausted to stay awake and fall.</p>
<hr/><p>Your dreams are fragmented, of the fire, of the demon in it, of grabbing onto Sam for dear life and begging him to save you. You clutch onto his hand so tight that your nails draw blood, break through his skin. Something flashes over you, over both of you. You don't know what it is but it is what ties you together. It is not human, it is supernatural. A curse. </p><p>A light filters into your dream. It feels like starlight but greater, closer, brighter. It carries a hum with it, almost a voice but you cannot understand it. It hurts your ears, makes you wince as you shut your eyes as it grows brighter before it vanishes. You feel two fingers on your forehead, gently pressed against your skin like your mom did when checking your temperature as a child. After that, peace.</p>
<hr/><p>Waking up on the couch, it takes you a moment to remember where you are. You do not remember sleeping so deeply, or waking up refreshed like this before. It is early and she is not awake yet. You should leave before she wakes, prevent her from being drawn into what is happening to you. You want her to continue to believe in God. </p><p>You write a short note for her and leave it in her kitchen. Thank you for your kindness, I will not forget it. You won't unless you are forced to. You are quiet when you leave and the door locks behind you with a final click. Despite wanting to turn back, you cannot. You head downstairs in your fresh clothes, carrying your bags over your shoulder. Coffee feels like a good idea, even better with how cold it is outside the apartment building. You head back over to the gas station, make your blurry eyed way to the coffee pot. It smells fresh as you pick the pot up and start to pour into a paper cup. It smells like a new start.</p><p>The pot slips out of your hand and falls to the floor, obliterates itself against the grimy tiles. The glass scatters everywhere and you jump back, your heart pounding in your chest. You turn around on instinct, fear coursing through you.</p><p>There he is. Sam Winchester. He looks surprised but he has to focus his eyes hard to see you. There is only one thing you can do now, before he takes you out like he has all the others. You reach for your cell, heart in your mouth, and call the number you set to speed-dial last night. </p><p>"Hello, FBI." You look Sam dead in the eyes, but already his gaze is starting to slide off you. You must push through your fear. You have to do this.</p><p>"I know where Sam Winchester is." Sam’s eyes focus on you saying that. For a moment you see that flash of darkness, as he considers how he’s going to deal with you before it drops away. He takes a step closer. </p><p>"Sorry ma'am, can you please speak up?" </p><p>"Sam Winchester! The murderer! He's on your most wanted list, you know exactly who I mean! He kidnapped me! I can tell you where he is!" You shout louder, don’t care if the whole damn gas station hears your every word. Nobody hears you. His eyes are glazed, they cannot see you, but that doesn’t stop his approach. You realize he is not going to kill you but that makes you even more afraid. </p><p>It is something worse he is keeping you for and you wonder if he even realizes that he is. </p><p>"I can't understand you ma'am, you're too quiet. I think your signal is bad, can you move to a room with better reception? Ma'am? Ma'am?" </p><p>The call drops as Sam keeps advancing towards you. You cannot feel the coffee burning its way between your fingers, smearing between them like your own blood did when you were dying. You feel yourself flicker and fade. What was your name again? </p><p>Here he comes</p><p>with his open hands.</p>
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